Wasted Souls | Short Fiction

---

The bar had been his refuge since that night, eight years ago. He had walked in bleary-eyed and half conscious. The music soothed his raging thoughts. The drink calmed his jumping nerves. But everything had returned the moment he stepped out. So he went back in, and had continued to day after day.

Sometimes he watched them; cold-eyed business men hastily and silently pushing underpaid sex workers into their crotch. The air growing more fetid. Their orgasmic shudders getting more hateful. Bad coffees left unfinished as they zip themselves up, making no eye contact as they shuffle out the door.

Sometimes he would pretend to browse on the ipad, searching for one to select, knowing he would pick none.

This ritual became his normal. It gave him peace, till he saw her. He had noticed her hair first – dirty blonde like his wife’s. He stiffened and banished the thought. His wife had been gone for years now. He watched her talk to an elderly pot-bellied man, smiling as she bent her head. Then the smile vanished and the man was cussing and breaking things. She turned and ran out.

Things went back to normal after that. He didn’t exactly know how it happened, but he found himself kissing her one night and the many nights that followed. Words were said in between thrusts. Promises were made while they moaned and turned.

Then she disappeared. Things like that happened every time. You never ask. You just move on. But he did. Now, he would disappear too.

_{Image Source}